Zoe vs. Picture Day

"I don't want to be pretty!" Zoe informed me at 6 a.m. on the Day of Days, or, less dramatically, Picture Day. For a week I'd been dangling the "pretty idea," sometimes casting it as "looking like a princess," as incentive so that when Picture Day came Zoe would be primed/brainwashed/whatever to put on her dress, submit to a hairstyle, and maybe even allow me to wipe her face. My inward feminist had cringed when I'd say these things, so I have to admit to being a little proud of Zoe for her response. She'd clearly learned that the Evil Queen from Snow White, obsessed with her looks, was no role model. (Not that Snow was much of a role model either with her "Someday My Prince Will Come" passivity.)

So I was proud of Zoe's verbal response. Her physical one, not so much, since soon after announcing her stance against pretty she removed her pull-up and peed on the floor. Of my bedroom. (Puddle, puddle on the floor, paper towels, please, some more.)

Scene from Picture Day: The Reckoning

Just a few months ago Zoe had been obsessed with pretty. When Mommy wore a skirt for work, she'd say, "Ooh, Mommy pretty." One night, when I got into my mismatched pajamas (perhaps I'm not much of a fashion example) she said, "Mommy, you not pretty." Ouch. Still my goal was comfortable, and comfortable and pretty are two states ever at odds with each other.

Pretty and all that it entails is such a loaded issue for we feminists. Zoe was watching TV the other day and there was a commercial for a talking Barbie. I assume the doll had several phrases in its arsenal but the one it spoke in the ad was: "I need new shoes." Barefoot in the kitchen making dinner, I winced. It's possible, but I rather doubt, that one of the other things the doll says is, "I need a doctorate in astrophysics." Also I suppose I have to admit that I myself have said, "I need new shoes," a lot more often than I've said the bit about the doctorate. In fact, I've only expressed the latter sentiment once, just now, and I'm pretty sure I didn't mean it.

Returning to the Day of Days, I should've seen it coming. Picture Days Past had been rocky. Plus Zoe had been getting more and more resistant to getting dressed in general. Some history . . .

The first Picture Day at her day care is one I look back on fondly where the only threats I had to worry about were surprise spit-up and explosive diarrhea. Zoe was six months old, a time when she wore whatever I put her in with no verbal or physical protest. And since she had no idea what was going on, she smiled for the people making silly faces while taking her picture. 

Irma realized her rookie mistake in letting a friend
give her a perm the night before Picture Day.

The next Picture Day came six months later, and you could see Zoe was starting to develop her trademark serious face. Think Clint Eastwood, only flintier. It went downhill from there. Every Picture Day she was either sick or she'd fallen the day before and sustained some obvious facial wound, such as a black eye or a chin gash or a scab below her nose so that her pictures looked like mug shots after a hard night of partying turned into a bar fight. The most unintentionally hilarious was when she was sick and gave the camera the Saddest Look in the World (patent pending), a sigh made flesh, one finger listlessly circling the carpet beneath her. She was not ready for her closeup.  

Then there was the time she would not put on her dress because she was going through this phase where she would not do whatever Mommy asked, at least I hope it's a phase, and I just brought the outfit with me to the day care and they were able to get it on her. Of course, it was a fight every morning after that to put her in anything besides that dress.

My mom "hearted" this look.

Then there's her hair. After wrestling her into her clothes every day, with a special fight on Picture Day for stockings and shoes that are Not Standard, ask me my mood to do her hair? I'm starting to understand why my mother gave my sister and me the Dorothy Hamill haircut. Once around the rink and it was perfect. If I'm able to sneak up behind Zoe and catch her by surprise, I must make a choice between combing her hair or forcing it into a clumpy ponytail because I've only got one shot at it.

On a normal morning, getting Zoe dressed is reminiscent of Debra Winger riding the mechanical bull in Urban Cowboy except the mechanical bull only bucks to throw you off, it doesn't also scream at you. Plus, it obligingly lives in a bar where a plentiful supply of alcohol awaits after you give up.

Mothers can nap anywhere, anytime.

I've tried the Offering a Choice idea. This is where you present two outfits and they get to pick one, the idea being that thus able to assert their independence in this minor way they'll be more willing to give you a break already. What Zoe likes to do is pick one, then halfway through getting it on insist on the other one. Repeatedly. While twisting around and screaming. So I give up and she goes to day care in pink and purple striped pants with a black and white polka dot shirt, like a regular clown aspiring to be a Harlequin clown. Meanwhile after all this pandemonium, the cat's by the door, valise at her feet, and a train schedule in her paws.

MarySue had worn the same outfit in her yearbook photo, where,
coincidentally, she had been named Most Likely to Commit a Felony.

Back to Picture Day. After I cleaned the pee from the floor Zoe agreed to put on her dress. Perhaps she just needed to show me who was boss, as if I didn't already know. However, she would not submit to putting on matching shoes or having her hair brushed. I'll take what I can get.

Zoe: 19; Universe: 0

Zoe vs. Dr. Phil

Last week's entry featured the acronym O.P.P. This week it's OCD.

All toddlers occasionally exhibit signs of obsessive compulsive disorder, but I had mounting evidence reason to believe Zoe might be suffering from the real thing.

And who better to consult about Zoe's possible OCD than Oprah-approved TV psychologist Dr. Phil?

Dr. Phil says that OCD can be controlled in 85 percent of cases. When I informed Zoe her response was, "What's 'puhcent'?" Also, because she herself can't count that high, she unilaterally rejected the idea that 85 was a real number. Everyone knows numbers only go as high as twenty-ten.

The only person who never had to
face the music was Helen Keller.
And that was cause she couldn't.

I told Dr. Phil what she said and he told me, "That dog won't hunt."

Wondering what he meant, I then presented Dr. Phil with ten examples of Zoe's behavior vis-a-vis OCD and its comorbidities (a word that needs to be used more since there are those of us who like to be morbid more than one way at a time), and his answers appear below. (Note: These may or may not be actual things he's said. Find out at the end.*)

1. Zoe likes to arrange all her toys in a straight line and facing the same direction. When one falls or refuses to stand, it triggers her Disruptive Mood Dysregulation Disorder (according to the DSM-5, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, a crazy-ass insane temper tantrum). What should I do? 

"You can put feathers on a dog, but that don't make it a chicken."

Is this the same dog that won't hunt? Can you clarify?

2. Zoe refuses to wash her hands, but I thought that people with OCD were supposed to be obsessed with hand-washing. I've also heard that you should expose the person with OCD to dirty things to get them sensitized to dirtiness. Does this mean I should expose her to her own hands?

"You don't need a pack of wild horses to learn how to make a sandwich."

I think I'm starting to understand you though I'm still confused about all the animal references. I think you're saying I'm making this more complicated than it has to be, right?

The above example shows how obsessive thoughts
can lead to compulsive hand-washing. Mainly because
blood tends to get all over the place when you
slaughter your whole family with an axe.

3. In the morning, Zoe MUST have her apple juice (mixed with water otherwise she'd be even nuttier) from a red sippy cup with a matching red top no matter that we own sippy cups in other colors and all the red ones are either sitting unwashed in the dishwasher or at the bottom of a pile of dishes in the sink and never mind that Mommy's so tired she can hardly see straight. Should I go back to bed?

"No dog ever peed on a moving car."

And we're back to the dogs.

4. Also I need to prepare her morning juice drink in the proper sequence, that is, water first then juice from the large juice container and then some from the small bottle that I use for short trips out, and it must be in this order or . . . Disruptive Mood Dysregulation. Should I cry?

"Everyone faces the challenge of finding meaning to their suffering."

Roger that, Dr. P! That's the first one that seems on target and didn't involve an animal.

5. Zoe has many other rigid rules that must be adhered to that don't have to do with juice. For instance: The path home from the day care must always be the same. When I read her one of her favorite books, I always have to do the voices the same way until I can't stand to hear the sound of my own voice. In order for her to brush her teeth we must brush ours at the same time and each of us has to hold a tube of toothpaste in our non-toothbrush hands. Any advice?

"You don't need a rope to pinch a stranger's butt."

What?

I told you I prefer the dove-gray sweater for arranging the cans in the pantry.

6. When Zoe was an infant she'd smack herself in the head when she drank from her bottle. Now when she drinks from her red sippy cup she pulls at her hair. Is this an offshoot of OCD called trichotillomania, aka the hair-pulling disorder? Will this lead to baldness?

"Don't make me put your head in my blender."

Baldness it is then.

7. I tell Zoe no a lot but this is because she's doing crazy stuff and I'm trying to teach her to survive and/or not be disgusting. She either ignores me or only listens for a little while before returning to the disgusting behavior. For example, the other day I asked her to stop smearing her Danimals smoothie on the TV and she complied for about three seconds before going back to smearing. However, when I promise her a cookie if she lets me finish food shopping without a meltdown she never forgets that. Does she have Selective Neurocognitive Disorder?

"No matter how flat you make a pancake it always has two sides."

Syrup's a problem too.

Sometimes hoarding is just hiding.

8. You had an episode on your show about hoarding where you paraded some poor woman and her family in front of your viewers like they were circus freaks. The DSM-5 defines hoarding as the "accumulation of a large number of possessions that often fill up or clutter an active living area to the extent that the intended use of the space is no longer possible." This sounds like my living room. It's not just the toys underfoot and the doll strollers and toy cars capsized with their stuffed animal occupants crushed beneath them as if there were a major traffic accident on Sesame Street, it's also the many sheets of paper strewn about featuring only one crayon mark due to her minimalist style. Her hoarding also affects her sleep because she insists on piling more and more toys on her bed, claiming she can't sleep without them. Besides the phalanx of stuffed animals, there are toys with sharp edges and that play music and so how could anyone sleep, especially you, Dr. Phil?

"The cat that ate the canary eventually also eats crow."

Ok, as long as there's a comeuppance on the horizon. 

9. On crazy sock day, Zoe insists on wearing crazy, i.e., mismatched, socks but once she has them on I CANNOT allude to the fact that she is wearing crazy socks or Disruptive Mood etc. I play along. Do I have Stockholm Syndrome?

"You can lead a horse to water but you can't make it think it's a donkey."

You're telling me.

10. Zoe's OCD is giving me PTSD, so could you BYOB ASAP?

"Don't pee on my leg and tell me it's raining."

Um, okay. 

Well, this has really helped and I think I'm well on my way to becoming a philistine, which is what I believe fans of Dr. Phil are called. How's that workin' for ya?

*Answers: 1 through 7 are all actual things Dr. Phil has said. 8 & 9 I made up. And 10 was a trick; that one's Judge Judy.

Zoe: 18; Universe: 0

Zoe vs. O.P.P.

Remember the song "O.P.P." by  Naughty by Nature? I was reminded of it the other day as I watched Zoe struggle with my friend's two-year-old over a toy. O.P.P., you'll recall, stands for Other People's Property (I know, but we're going with the G-rated version). It was still playing in the clubs the last time I was in one, so early nineties, I suppose, by which time if I wasn't clubbed out I'd met the soon-to-be husband, who only dances when it's socially compulsory, i.e., when all the other couples have to join the wedding couple on the dance floor. Therefore the frequency of his dancing falls somewhere between a solar eclipse and a biblical plague of locusts. Incidentally, for all three, experts recommend you shield your eyes.

Zoe LOVES Other People's Property. Only she doesn't call it that. Her name for Other People's Property is "Mine."  Naughty by Nature (three words that also describe Zoe!), the hip-hop trio from New Jersey consisting of Treach, Vin  Rock, and DJ  Kay Gee, lovingly crafted these words of wisdom, and in honor of them today's post comes to you in rhyme.

Note/Warning: I haven't rapped in years. Back then, Salt-N-Pepa feared my flowcabulary, and I went by the moniker PB&J. Because there ain't nuthin' whiter than that. Now I bring you . . .

O.P.P. (with revisions)

[Verse 1] -- Mommy

On the weekend we went over to somebody's house

They have a two-year-old so toys and stuff lay all around

Five versions of that red puppet that we know and love

Four adults see a fight unfolding from above

Besides the one that actually belongs to Z

There's one that sneezes, one that laughs, and one with kung-fu chi

But Z wants one in particular

the one that someone else has

a moment's inattention, there comes her chance

it's in her hands---O.P.P.!---it's hers at last.

Original playa-hatas

[Chorus] -- Mommy/Everyone

You down with O.P.P.? Yeah, you know Z.

Who's down with O.P.P.? Every last baby.

You down with O.P.P.? Yeah, you know Z.

Who's down with O.P.P.? All the babies.

[Verse 2] -- Mommy

Other child's back is turned

Z seized the opportunity

Toy's now hers with impunity, bust it

E to the L to the M to the O

Lo and behold the two-year-old

sees, a tug-of-war commences

no mending fences

put up defenses

Elmo's in distress, what a mess, 

Wrecks, decks, snaps necks, comes correct.

Where are we living in? Gots to be oblivion. 

We implore, we ignore. Dads, don't keep score, not anymore. 

Don't wanna be no bore.

Take the toy and kick it to the curb.

You take from us, 'rents, don't be absurd!

Gotta be a solution, a problem evolution

Treach ponders, Why won't shorties share?

Just other people's property

And you're down with a discount.

[Chorus]

You down with O.P.P.? Yeah, you know Z.

Who's down with O.P.P.? Every last baby.

You down with O.P.P.? Yeah, you know Z.

Who's down with O.P.P.? All the babies.

[Verse 3]  -- Zoe (aka, Scary Spice 4Realz)

I'm in the park and it's a sunny day

See a ball. Some other kid's but he's not gonna play

Walk on over, scoop it up, tell me the wrong in that?

Give it a throw, no one'll know

Wait, I smell a rat.

What they don't know won't hurt 'em, as long as that other kid don't alert 'em

Whiny tattletale little sister, when I punch I won't miss her.

Mommy drags me from the playground, claims I need a nap

In my defense, I say it was a trap

Stupid stroller lulling me to sleep

I'll dream of all the toys I'm gonna keep

Starting with that ball, just don't get in my way

It belonged to someone else but was gonna be mine anyway.

[Chorus]

You down with O.P.P.? Yeah, you know Z.

Who's down with O.P.P.? Every last baby.

You down with O.P.P.? Yeah, you know Z.

Who's down with O.P.P.? All the babies.

Collateral damage from another O.P.P. dispute.

[Verse 4] -- Zoe and Mommy

When I wake up from my nap you best not look at me

Messy hair, peanut butter crusting my lips, damn skippy!

It's hard to be a toddler, and you know that's a fact

Coaxing me awake takes mad skillz and a lot of tact.

Cause, y'all when you're small it ain't at all

Fun, no (Z, you tell it! Drop your load!)

I did. (Yeah, I smell it.)

Come over here and get changed. Why you actin so deranged?

Cause I drank too much - - -

M to the O to the T to the T to the S

No sugar added, already has enough, now you high on the stuff

Dancin', prancin', can't stay still

Bedtime battle's sure to be uphill. Why can't you just chill? Mommy needs a pill.

This rhyme's a disaster, just like my living room after

Z!

That rhymes with

3!

The age of

Z.

Yeah, you know me!

Word!*

Zoe: 17; Universe: 0

*That word is no.

Zoe vs. Mommy, the Physical Assault

Note: I'm specifying "physical assault" because the case can be made that all the previous posts catalog Zoe's mental assaults on me. I'd be the one to make that case.

Survivor of an attack by a
featureless orange toddler.

Last week's post detailed the ways in which Zoe likes to get up close and personal. But sometimes it's not just too close for comfort. Sometimes it's downright painful. So today I list the ways in which Zoe's love hurts. From head to toe.

Hair: she likes to pull it. Hard. She likes me to put a "bow" (translation: ponytail holder) in my hair so she can yank more efficiently. Ow factor: high.

Eyes: poke! If my glasses are off. Irony alert: if my glasses are on, my eyes are protected but my glasses are in danger. Ow factor/threat to expensive belonging: high.

Nose: you pick mine, I'll try to pick yours. Ow factor: low, really more annoying.

Cheeks: pinch! Ow factor: medium.

Mouth/lips: the making out gets violent. Ow factor: medium, depends on how bitey she gets.

Teeth: I'm separating this from "mouth" because we have a history. When I was pregnant with Zoe, I had pregnancy gingivitis, meaning my gums bled. A lot. Since her birth my teeth are just a mess and my dentist is sick of seeing me. While Zoe's first year was full of the usual milestones like smiling, supporting her own head, walking, for me the year was marked by one dental appointment after another to deal with toothaches that ended in root canals, crowns, and even one apicoectomy when I still had pain following one of the root canals. Ow factor: high, and expensive.

Chin and jaw: let me set the scene. Every morning I sit on the floor behind Zoe trying to get her dressed for day care as she flails around whining. After I finally manage to shove one leg into whatever pants she doesn't want to wear, she launches herself violently upward into my chin and I see stars. The head under chin contact from a blonde, three-year-old missile is unbelievably painful. This has happened more times than I can count. Sometimes I bite my tongue because I'd been in the midst of begging her to stay still. Ow factor: highest.

So let's see, how far have we gotten?  Still above the neck. We have a lot more ground to cover.

Speaking of . . .

Neck: pinching. Similar to cheek pinching, however, there's not as much to pinch so it's more like yanking on skin. Also, passionate strangling. You know how it is. Sometimes the excitement is just too much and then you have to strangle someone. Ow factor: high.

Torso: general jabbing with knees and elbows as she tries to get comfortable. A prerequisite is Mommy must be making that Ow sound. So soothing! Ow factor: medium to high, depends on target area.

Hands: Zoe, as you might imagine, objects to having her nails cut so right away let's add scratching, full body. Her only takeaway from my eventual trimming of her nails is that Mommy's nails are too long, and since she's not allowed to use the scissors (wonder why) she tries to use her fingers to pull my own nails off. As I read her stories as night she works from one nail to the other, digging and pulling until I yank my hand away. Ow factor: medium.

Groin: The Husband would have volumes to say here but he's sitting on the couch whimpering with a bag of frozen peas on his lap. So I'll just paint another scene: I've collapsed on the floor on my back because sometimes, wherever you are and whatever is happening, you've just got to lie down. Zoe comes over and lies down between my legs then squirms her head up into my groin. I think she's trying to get back into the womb and/or re-enacting a breach birth. I keep telling her she can't get back in but that doesn't stop her from delivering her intimate head-butting. Ow factor: eh. Awkward and weird factor: high.

Butt: she likes to bite it. To be fair, I've bitten her butt. It's just so cute. Guess she feels the same way. Can't really blame her. It's my best feature. Ow factor: silly.

Legs: in the mornings, when she's AWAKE and I'm NOT, she wants to sit on my lap on the couch watching TV, and constantly shift her weight. It's not just shots and jabs to the chest and stomach (see "torso" above), it's also the skin on my legs that gets mauled and pinched amid her shifting, or I get scratched by her toenails. Ow factor: medium.

Elf Toe Syndrome. Needs its own telethon.

Feet and toes: First I must explain. I have ingrown toenails. They grow down and in. Also, I have this weird issue where the bones of my big toes grow upward. There's probably an official name for this foot condition but I call it Elf Toe Syndrome. Except instead of delightful little bells at the ends of my big toes, it's bone. I recently had one of my toenails removed, as in permanently. But before that, when Zoe used to stamp down on my foot, I'd lose my ability to process language, entering the Realm Beyond Ow. Think of a room without windows where three of the walls are painted bloodred and the fourth is an accent wall covered in a repeating pattern of Edvard Munch's The Scream. Ow factor before surgery: Infinite. After surgery: I have another toe, so it ain't pretty.

He thought he had problems.

That complete's my head to toe survey. In terms of pain management, I feel like Dr. House. I went from someone who took one Tylenol at a time to swallowing two Aleve . . . dry.

Zoe: 16; Universe/Mommy: 0

Postscript: This post is a day late because Zoe gave me her stomach virus. Ow factor: dry heaves.

Zoe vs. Personal Space

The Husband stands in the kitchen in his underwear, scarfing down his dinner. He is sweating. He's not hot; he's afraid. Sweat pours down his face profusely as he hears quick little footsteps. "Daddy?" And then she's in the kitchen, her quarry cornered.

"Daddy. I want . . . I want . . . I want . . . I want. Something."

She always does. And you better figure out what before she does and have it in your hand. 

The Husband is wrapped around our three-year-old's finger. I'd laugh but that's a luxury I can't afford. She has nine other fingers after all. If I forget she reminds me by poking, prodding, and pinching.

Clearly, Zoe does not respect personal space.

I am a person who enjoys her personal space. Please do not touch should be emblazoned on my forehead. The subway at rush hour is close to unbearable, the human proximity inescapable. My worst nightmare? A cuddle party. (It's a real thing.)

This shouldn't happen. Ever. Anywhere.

But back to Zoe and her problem with boundaries.

Admittedly I started it by allowing her to gestate inside my actual body for 42 weeks. This came to an end with a forcible eviction, i.e., an induction, which didn't work, followed by a 36-hour labor, including back labor, because, naturally, she wasn't going to make this easy by facing the right way (even then her intentions were clear), then an eventual C-section because the cord was wrapped around her neck (I envision her reaching out for it and wrapping it around her neck herself, something along the lines of making a last stand). And, voila, she entered the world in her natural state, resistance, kicking and screaming the whole way.

Breast-feeding didn't help matters. I can't speak for other women but I found it next to impossible to maintain professional distance while feeding someone via one of my body parts. 

So I suppose it's my own fault that Zoe's takeaway from all this was that there'd be lots of contact.

Just, ick.

The way she "shares" a bed has already been covered. When she gets up she likes to cuddle. Only to Zoe, cuddling is an extreme sport. The Husband is over six feet tall and yet he is crammed into a corner of the couch. I'm in the other corner. The center of the couch is not used. Zoe likes to smush. Smushing is love. When she needs to shift positions or reach for her juice, we can count on an elbow in our stomachs.

If she becomes enraptured by a TV show, the Husband tries to sneak away to the computer, but before he can Google "how to stop a toddler from . . ." she's tugging on his arm or clawing her way onto his lap, reaching out to break the keyboard, mouse, Daddy's spirit.

Earlier I mentioned I might be tempted to laugh when she's turned her laser-like focus on the Husband, but there's another reason I try to keep my mouth firmly shut. If I don't she might shove her tongue down my throat. See, Zoe likes to make out. And it's not just limited to forceful pressing of the lips. She likes to French. She also likes garlic. (Note to self for a future blog post: Zoe vs. Dental Hygiene.)

She also has no concept of the Inside Voice. Whether she's expressing joy or sorrow, two things are paramount: she must be loud and her mouth must be millimeters from my ear. I told her once to speak calmly. Her response was to yell: "COM-LEE!"

Privacy in the bathroom is, of course, a nonstarter. She won't get near the potty herself but if Mommy or Daddy needs Alone Time she doesn't get why we can't have Alone Time with her. Considerately, she even offers to wipe.

Owing to her handsy-ness, the last thing I do when getting ready for work in the morning is dress myself. Too many things can happen if Zoe's not completely ready first. Ideally, she'll even be buckled into the stroller. But the other morning I was on my own and in my panic rushing around made the mistake of getting dressed first and then it was like dodging a moving minefield while at the same time having to dress the mines and arrange their hair into ponytails.

As I struggled to get her socks and shoes on I wasted a lot of time and psychic energy avoiding the chocolate granola bar in her hands that she'd claimed to want for what I assumed were eating purposes but apparently she just wanted it for holding purposes and for pretending it was Big Jet from Little Einsteins. (Note that Big Jet is the nemesis of our hero, Rocket, who communicates with the Little Einsteins via charming bell-like sounds, so I am a tad disturbed that she identifies with the villain.)

Big Jet demonstrates what happens to those
who violate minimum safe distance protocols.

Next, as I lovingly restrained her so I could brush her hair (notice it is only when Mommy needs to touch her, e.g., diapering, bathing, dressing, hair-brushing, that Zoe's desire for personal space kicks in) I also had to avoid the snot hanging just inside the opening of her right nostril, fluttering gently in and out as she breathed. That done I stood wondering where I'd put my coffee mug so I could guzzle the rest of my coffee down and turned back just in time to avoid getting doused with it as Zoe helpfully offered it to me, sloshing it on the rug instead.

By the time I get her in the stroller and we head out the door I'm feeling like a winner. Until I get to work and a co-worker points out the brownish stain on my shirt.

In the bathroom trying to clean it off I can see I'm working with a base layer of chocolate granola bar, set with apple juice---and possibly the yogurt she'd had me open only to have one bite---topped off with the piece de resistance, aka, the piece of mucus. (I'd wondered where it had gotten to since her nasal passages had looked clear when I'd dropped her off at daycare.) I should've taken a photo. Then I could finally create a board on Pinterest, something all the kids are doing. I'd call it "Zoe's Found Art." Next time, probably tomorrow.

Pin it or wash it?

Stay tuned for next week's post, "Zoe vs. Mommy, the Physical Assault" where Zoe's Personal Space issues get personal-er.

Zoe: 15; Universe: 0